


Certainty

by sansos



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, F/M, M/M, Post-Time Skip, Pre-Time Skip, Pro Volleyball Player Oikawa Tooru
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 06:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26967133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansos/pseuds/sansos
Summary: Oikawa Tōru knew he was a fool, but if it meant being able to see your smile, he would gladly continue on with his act of the court jester.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru & Reader, Oikawa Tooru/Reader
Comments: 7
Kudos: 123





	1. First Act

**Author's Note:**

> One of these days I will stop writing angst for Oikawa. One of these days… but that day will not be today…
> 
> Written for an anon request!   
> Prompt: "are you sure about that" + Oikawa/Akaashi

Oikawa Tōru was a performer: an entertainer of sorts.

He was both the conductor and the composer of the metaphorical orchestra clad in white and teal, constantly analyzing and processing each movement in the orchestra to set up each staccato accent with pinpoint precision. He was the natural-born leader of the group — the pragmatic epitome of charisma itself. He was the figure his team looked up to for inspiration and the face that everyone admired and watched silently in awe.

One could argue that he was a comedian as well: he served as the mood-maker of the group, raising up team morale in his unique quirky way while facilitating the electrifying unity of the team whether it be in game or during practice. He needed his team to be tight-knit, he needed them all to be giving more than their all. As the ringleader leading the bewitching talents of the circus, the success of the collective weighed entirely on his shoulders alone. Each step he took must be perfect — there was no room for error.

Practice made perfect, and Oikawa made sure to practice a lot. He was a performer through and through — a class act of sorts. Everything he did _had_ to be perfect, and if it wasn’t, then he would practice until it was. His role as the setter was one he treated with utmost respect and care, staying behind late and practicing, practicing, and _practicing_ until his hands were red and blood caked underneath his nails.

It had come without surprise when he received the offer for him to join the team in Argentina on the phone right after the new year began. Club Athletico San Juan, a Division 1 team in the Argentinian league based more than 10,000 miles away from home, had set their sights on the skills Oikawa had shown off so many times on center stage.

The choice was obvious, and when he had told you about the offer, he had watched with quiet relief as your face widened into a proud grin. You had slapped him on the back, your hand wrinkling the back of his freshly ironed white shirt, and lectured him on “wasting precious time” telling you about the opportunity when he should have immediately gone ahead to accept it.

Your face had been painted over in shades of pride, elation, glee, and boisterous excitement as you shook him by the shoulders, your own happiness getting the best of you as you rocked him back and forth while chattering on about how this was the opportunity of a lifetime — that this was proof that the world had kept watching this whole time. Oikawa couldn’t hold back his smile that day, and for once in a long time, the corners of his lips stretched to the edges of his face in a lopsided and goofy grin.

The expression seldom appeared on his face — it was imperfect, boorish, and unbefitting of an award-winning performer. Anywhere else he would have resisted the urge to contort his lips into such a shape, but with you he felt safe; with you he felt like he could be himself.

The day he was scheduled to leave was the morning after his high school graduation ceremony. Perhaps it was a hasty decision to make, having only gotten the offer two months prior, but with your and his family’s encouragement, he had made the decision to arrive as soon as possible to get properly settled in before training formally began. After all, he had been cast as a professional volleyball player on the world stage — it was a role of a lifetime. He needed everything to be perfect to properly get into character.

He had been both eagerly awaiting and dreading the day of his graduation — the day where he would put on his school uniform one last time, the day where he would finally receive proof of his hard work over the years he spent in school, the day before he would depart for the other side of the world… The day before he would have to say goodbye to his memories with you. 

As he turned around the corner in his search for you, he heard hiccups of a familiar voice bounce off the walls. A familiar voice that brought about fond memories of the sun and of intoxicating laughter, yet sounded in this moment of hurt and of loss. With his back pressed against the wall, his hand clutching on tight to his rolled up diploma, he peaked behind his shoulder and watched as you stood by the windows of the hallway, your scroll forgotten and discarded to the side as you frantically rubbed at your eyes with the corners of your sleeves. 

_So you had been hiding those thoughts as well._

The excitement from earlier had all but dissipated, leaving behind a look of guilt in its wake. _Please do not put on such a sad face_ , he pleaded in his mind while biting hard on his bottom lip in silent frustration. _Please don’t cry for someone like me_. He quietly stepped into the hallway, his heel digging into the freshly polished floors before the rest of his foot gently followed.

“(f/n)?”

You looked up, your eyes red and your face tear-stained, to meet the poignant smile that Oikawa had painted on as he approached you from the end of the hallway.

“Hey,” you greeted as your hands flew up to erase the traces of your grief. “What’s up?”

Oikawa swallowed back a gulp as he watched as a smile returned to your face. You leaned down to pick your diploma back up, giving it a light pat to brush off the dust on the bottom.

He could divulge to you his own worrisome thoughts — how he had been haunted by the looming reality that was to come when the two of you bid your separate ways — but what use was it to bring about such pessimistic despondency? He licked at his bottom lip as his chest expanded and relaxed; no, he needed to stay strong for you. The curtain hadn’t closed just yet; he had to stay in character.

“If you keep crying like how you do after watching a romcom, your eyes will get all red and puffy like a spoilt tomato,” he teased with a grin as he reached up to pinch at your cheeks, stretching them out to guide the corners of your mouth back into the radiant smile he had so much adored. 

He didn’t want to give this up either — he wanted so badly himself to just rip off the lock and shed the tears he slaved so hard to hold back. The thought of having to leave you was unbearable for him, but if you were working so hard to hide it from him, then he couldn’t afford to give in to something as foolish as selfish emotion.

“I do _not_ look like a spoilt tomato, shut up you dumbass,” you sniffed as you swatted at his hands to shake him off. He shrugged as he lifted his hands off from your face, taking advantage of your sudden loss of balance to catch you in his chest in a tight hug.

“Did you know that pumpkins grew on trees?” Oikawa murmured into your ear, his voice low and husky. He leaned back against the window, stifling a chuckle as he stared at the puzzled confusion on your face.

“Tōru, you do realize that’s a blatant lie, right?”

Of course he did, but he had to stay faithful to his character.

“What?! No way!” he gaped in feigned shock. “I was so sure it was real! I even told Iwa-chan about it and promised him milk bread that I wasn’t lying this time!”

Your laughter erupted from your chest as fresh tears lined the edges of your eyelids — this time bursting out from the sheer absurdity and ridiculousness of Oikawa’s supposed gullibility. He chuckled as he reached a hand up to pinch at your cheeks again, his expression cheeky with satisfaction.

It had returned — the laugh he had loved so much. The sound that was brighter than the final bell chiming after a long day; the sound that rivalled even the beauty of the sparrow’s song. The sound that was so infectious and spellbinding that he could never help but stare back with the softest of smiles as he basked in your joy. The sound of your happiness that he vowed to always protect.

Oikawa Tōru knew he was a fool, but if it meant being able to see your smile, he would gladly continue on with the act of a jester.


	2. Second Act

Oikawa stood before you on the polished floors of the airport with his passport in one hand and the handle of his suitcase in the other. His boarding pass had been tucked between the pages of the passport, its edges dented and the surface crumpled from having unknowingly folded the card-stock back and forth in his restlessness.

His lips pursed together as his toes curled against the insoles of his shoes. He could feel the overwhelming regret of the words he had just uttered claw at him from behind, dragging him down into the purgatory he had manifested for himself. He could laugh it off and claim that he was simply joking, but this was something he had spent weeks mulling over to measure every inch of the array of futures this decision would bring about.

What he wanted himself was insignificant. This was what ought to be done — what _needed_ to be done.

Oikawa readjusted his grip on his passport and kept his sight trained on you as he awaited your response.

“ **Are you sure about that?** ” you asked, your face void of any and all emotion with a steely gaze so steady that it felt as if his soul had been laid bare in front of you to scrutinize.

He opened his mouth, and quickly closed it again. His eyes darted left and right, looking everywhere and nowhere at once — just anywhere but at your face. Was it remorse? Cowardice? Penitence?

_Uncertainty?_

“I—” he hesitated, his mind still unsure if the path he had chosen to walk upon was the right one. “I— I… Yeah. I am, I suppose.”

He could feel the uncertainty tugging at his gut warning him that _this_ would be the single biggest mistake of his life, but the reality was that he couldn’t turn back anymore. He couldn’t possibly afford to. This had to be done: this had to be done to secure a better future for you. A future where you didn’t have to hide your tears anymore — a future where you would never have to feel alone.

You stared back at him pokerfaced — no twitching of the eye, no gritting of your teeth, no furrowing of your brows. You were expressionless, unfazed, unsurprised; as if you had predicted this exact scenario from long before. The grim reality of his decision had struck him at that moment, and he could feel a sword fashioned with your shared memories and infused with every thought and every feeling of love you had ever felt for him pushed deep into his chest.

“I know you’ll miss my dashingly handsome face,” he paused to flip his bangs to the side, “but don’t worry, I’ll make sure to send you plenty of pictures still!” he sang with a wide grin plastered on, the eyes of regret forced behind his smile.

Because even though your face had reflected no trace of it, he knew. He knew just how devastating and heartbroken you must have felt in the moment — how you must have rehearsed in the mirror for hours on end to be able to receive the suggestion of a breakup without a single tell betraying your emotions. He didn’t want to see you so distraught; he didn’t want to leave you with thoughts contemplating the outcome if you had done something — _anything_ — differently.

If playing the role of a narcissistic fool would lighten the tension in the atmosphere even by just a sliver and save _you_ from the confines of your mental prison, he would willing trade every last ounce of his pride to do so.

Oikawa watched as you breathed in, then out, and after what seemed like an eternity of being left for dead at the altar, he saw the edges of your lip pick up again as a ghost of a smile settled into place. “I suppose you’re right about that,” you murmured, your voice breathy and brittle.

The tremble in your response was enough to catalyze the reaction that would serve to rip his heart into pieces, grinding the shards into a fine powder that would then be plated onto the mask he wore over his very existence. He wanted to scream and cry — to pry off the mask stuck onto his face to give way for his sorrow to show through — but no matter how hard he tried, all he had to show for his efforts were bloodied hands cut by the porcelain of his guise.

It had to stay on; the show wasn’t over just yet. He had to make sure that you’d be able to leave the performance with a smile.

“I’m sorr—”

“Don’t be,” you cut in, your hands fidgeting in front of you. You heaved another deep breath and you beamed up at him again —the same one he had fallen in love with when you first met those many years ago. “If it’s you, I know you must have thought long and hard about it.”

The two of you had always managed to communicate through an unwritten code (or maybe it was just proof of the extent of your understanding for one another), and he couldn’t help but wonder if you had caught on to his ruse and had chosen to play along. He could feel the tingling at the base of his nose and the pressure behind his eyes as he fought to delay the arrival of his tears.

It wasn’t fair. _It wasn’t fair_.

It wasn’t fair how you had always refused to pull down your walls to reveal your weaknesses in front of him, instead choosing to fortify them even further to leave _him_ with a smile rather than a frown. It wasn’t fair how your love for one another had fuelled the worthless pride of refusing to hold the other back out of earnest consideration.

All he wanted was to bring to you happiness in its purest form. It was really as simple as that.

And if he couldn’t even do that—

“You’ll meet someone better than me,” he blurted out, his grip on his suitcase handle tightening until his knuckles turned white. His voice caught in his throat seconds after as his consciousness registered the weight of his words, and he looked at you in forlorn distress before quickly slapping on another forced smile.

He so badly wanted to rewind time and take back his words, but what was the point of that? His selfishness urged at him to keep his hand entwined with yours and to fight through the bitter storm, but his sense of duty _knew_ what had to be done.

“You deserve nothing but the best,” he continued, his voice merry and joyful though the quiver of his lips at the end suggested otherwise.

He had a role to play, and as a performer, he treated each role with utmost respect. It all had to be perfect — if not, he’d work at it until _he_ broke. This was the one single thing that he refused to not attain perfection in.

He couldn’t keep you a prisoner of his own egotism. What he _needed_ was for you to be able to smile at the end of the day. The world had no place for his own desires. He was insignificant — replaceable even. Oikawa Tōru was but another harlequin in the theatre — his sole purpose was to draw out your laughter with his invented silliness for the brief duration of the single performance you had paid admission for. Any subsequent show could be acted out by another.

You frowned, pausing for a second before whispering a quiet “Have a safe flight, Tōru,” through a small smile, having chosen to ignore his remark. With a nod of your head, you promptly turned around to walk away, leaving him alone standing in the center of the departure hall as the rest of the world stopped and watched.

He was nothing but a performer on center stage — a clown purposely falling off the ball he had mastered walking atop solely to elicit a laugh out of the audience. It didn’t matter how painful or devastating it was for him; it would all be covered by the mask he would wear over his face.

It would all be okay. It would all be for the better.

He blinked back the tears welling in his eyes as he forced down the contrition of his choice with a gulp. With a heavy heart, he turned around and passed through the departure gates with his suitcase in tow.

It would all be alright.


	3. Third Act

Oikawa often found himself wondering if time had stopped since stepping foot outside of the airport upon his arrival in Argentina.

The sun still rose and the moon still waned, and the hands of the clock still turned. The Earth still maintained its orbit around the sun, and when he looked at his phone in the morning each day, he could see that the date had ticked up by one. The birds that nested on the branch by his window flew about during the day, chirping merrily as they scattered throughout in exploration, only to promptly return back to the nest by nightfall.

Yet in spite of all the signs of life that surrounded him, he knew that something was off.

It had been an unsettling feeling nagging at the back of his mind that warned him of the peculiarity. Perhaps it lied in the alteration of his center of gravity, for his very existence seemed to slow down to a halt, or perhaps it was that the rest of the world had left him behind as it blazed on forwards through the construct of time. Too often had he found himself feeling like a spectator in his own life, quietly watching as his surroundings fast-forwarded until he could no longer keep up.

Too often had he found himself wondering when the lonely emptiness stabbing him in the chest would dull — out of focus and out of mind.

For him, time certainly had stopped, because if time could heal all wounds, how was it that _this_ _one_ still remained so fresh? How did the stinging of the laceration in his chest persist through the test of time? Why was it that all his efforts to jumpstart the present — to bury the dread and the regret that seemed to ravage his mind — always fall short of success?

The vibration of his phone against the wooden surface of his dresser interrupted his thoughts, pulling him out of the dreamless void of emptiness his slumber had become and back into the corporeal world of reality. His eyes immediately flew open, his arm outstretched and his fingers by the lock button of his phone before even the first ring of his alarm.

His thumb pressed down forcefully on the button, silencing his device before the speakers even got the chance to ring out. He brought his phone screen to his face, quietly staring back with dull eyes at his lock screen wallpaper — the one with the two of you in front of the school entrance that _you_ had set for him.

Letting out a deep breath, he extinguished the light from his device and threw it onto the other side of the bed as he sat up and placed his feet down onto the cold wooden flooring of his bedroom. He slowly stood up, stretching out his arms as he did so, and trudged over to the bathroom across the hallway.

_Just another regular start to the day._

His hand flicked up the light switch by the bathroom door, and he squinted his eyes at the sudden brightness of the light as he blindly felt for the tap to turn on the faucet.

For as long as he’s lived in the apartment, each night he would lay in bed staring at the bleakness of the night and wake up the next morning to the sun spilling into his room all in the blink of an eye. It dawned on him that he could no longer recall the last time his unconsciousness had graced him with the opportunity to dream, but he much preferred it this way. He had been haunted enough by the thoughts of you during the day — he needn’t suffer through them in the lone hours of the night as well.

As he waited for his cup to fill up with water, his eyes glanced up to the figure standing on the other side of the bathroom mirror. He frowned and leaned forward until he was mere inches away from the mirror, examining each square inch of his own reflection in curious bewilderment.

The fingertips of his free hand danced across his raised cheekbones as he brushed his teeth, and while his touch confirmed his suspicions, he found it hard to believe that the person staring back at him was none other than his own reflection. The figure in the mirror’s appearance and presence seemed so _different_ from his own self-image. While he was the textbook definition of handsome, his features sharp and perfectly proportioned, it was clear he looked fatigued and sullen —his eyes hollow and expressionless. It was as if he was incomplete and empty — as if he was nothing but a mere vessel without a soul.

Oikawa frowned; he had always envisioned himself as more of a…

He leaned back from the mirror and spat the toothpaste in his mouth into the sink.

_He wasn’t quite sure who he was anymore now that he thought about it._

With a sniff of his nose, he watched as his reflection squared his shoulders and stood straight before him in the mirror. He raised two fingers on each hand up to the corners of his mouth, pushing the edges up into some semblance of a smile.

 _Had his smile always looked so forced?_ He opened his mouth, revealing his teeth in a wide beam.

_Had his expressions always seemed so stiff?_

With a heavy sigh, he dropped his hands back to his sides and he watched as his lips fell back into the tight line from before. He tossed his toothbrush to the side and walked back into his room towards his closet, his fingers combing through his hair as he grabbed his team jacket with his other hand and headed for the front door.

It didn’t really matter in the end whether or not his smile looked forced or stiff or whatnot. He was the mood-maker of the team — the comedian, the jokester. No one would pay any notice as long as he seemed happy enough.

Slipping one arm and then the other into his sleeves, he zipped the jacket up to the top and pulled at the bottom of the fabric to straighten out the folds. Oikawa had settled into a predictable routine now that he had gotten accustomed to his new life in Argentina. He’d wake up, get ready and head out the door, jog over to practice, and then cool down on one of the benches outside by the gymnasium doors as he waited for the rest of the team to trickle in. It gave him time to ready himself for the act he would have to put on, equipping him with the focus he would need to simultaneously play at his best while acting out the character of the Pierrot.

Ensuring that his shoelaces were tightly laced, he gave a quick tap of the tips of his shoes against the marble flooring of the atrium and pulled open the door, stepping out into the sleepy streets of the early morning.

It wasn’t that he really needed the extra exercise, but it gave him something to keep his mind occupied with. In a world where time seemed to have stopped only for him, it was his one chance to regain his pace to catch up, no matter how futile, with the rest of the world. It was short-lived and fleeting, but he appreciated how there existed no pressure on the way he _should_ act — it was just him alone in the very moment; the intermission in the play his life had become where he could, almost ironically, stop and catch his breath.

As he arrived at the front entrance of the training center, he reached up to his ears to unhook his earbuds and shoved them into his pant pocket before taking a seat by the gymnasium door. He brought his phone up to his face as he leaned back against the wall, his legs outstretched in front of him, as he scrolled through the notifications that had accumulated throughout the night.

He let out a quiet chuckle at the silly pictures of animals his old teammates sent him in their group chat, and his thumbs flew across his phone’s on-screen keyboard as he typed out his reply with the same pinpoint precision as his tosses. He tapped reflexively at the corner of the screen to toggle the stickers, sending an onslaught of smiling cartoon aliens to the group to declare his amusement.

He paused, looking back at the chat window on his phone, and frowned at the overly up-beat messages he had just sent to his friends. Was he overcompensating? Was he trying too hard to _be_ happy?

_Was he not?_

With a shrug, he tapped at the arrow at the top corner to return to the app’s home screen. He was a professional; they’d never take notice that he had accidentally dialled his excitement too high. _Even he didn’t notice after all_.

Leaning forward with his elbows resting on his thighs, his thumb scrolled through his LINE feed, sparing less than a second of a glance at each post until his eyes landed on a picture you had posted just hours earlier. It was simply a photo of you by the beach with little written in the caption save for a silly turtle emoji, but a ghost of a smile settled on his lips nonetheless. You were never good at writing captions, and the memory of him teasing you for “taking the easy way out with emojis” brought about a sense of solace in his heart.

Oikawa stared at your vibrant smile before him, a warm feeling settling at the base of his stomach. You looked happy; the sun shone brightly behind you in the photo, and your arms were splayed out with the exuberant energy of your infectious joy reaching out to the very tips of your fingers. You looked happy and full of life — as if you had finally reached the very ending that he had fought so tirelessly to offer you on a silver platter. _This_ was the proof he had needed to convince himself that it was all worth it; that all the nights he spent awake wandering through the depths of his mind imprisoned by his own regret had been worth it.

He was glad that you got your happy ending, but at the same time, he couldn’t deny the stiffness of his jaw and the pang of pain that shot through his chest. It hurt, and he suspected that it would continue to hurt for the rest of this life, but if that were the sacrifice he would have to make to guarantee your protection against his demons…

_Then he would be more than willing to trade away every genuine feeling of happiness in his entire lifetime just to secure the deal._

He swallowed a gulp and quickly swiped up and out of the app to return to his home screen. He locked his phone with a quick press of the button, but subconsciously pressed at it again to bring up his wallpaper once more.

“I just want you to be happy,” he murmured quietly to himself, his thumb dragging across the surface of the screen.

Because at the end of the day, what was most important was that he had accomplished his mission — that he had kept the promise that he made to himself to guard his most beloved treasure with every fiber of his being.

 _If it meant that you’d get the happy ending you deserved, he'd willingly take the fall_.

Loud footsteps echoed out from in front of him, and a pair of bright blue court shoes stepped into his visual field.

“Hey, you okay, Tōru?”

He looked up to find his team’s captain staring down at him with a worried frown.

“Oh, never better,” Oikawa replied with a mirthless laugh as he stood back up to his full height, looking his captain in the eye with a cheerful smile on his lips.

_“Never better.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I was quite clever with the dual meaning behind Oikawa's words in the last lines 🤔


	4. Fourth Act

Oikawa stepped through the frosted automatic doors separating the baggage carousel from the arrival hall, clutching onto the grip of his suitcase with one hand as he fumbled to zip up his light blue jacket with the other. He stopped in his tracks, heaving a sigh as he gave in and lifted his hand off the handle and surrendered to his pride to use both hands to zip the zipper up to the top. With the cold metal now just grazing at the skin of his chin, he reached up to reclaim the passport he had clamped in his mouth and stepped into the loud, zealous atmosphere of the arrival concourse.

He watched as the faces of the people he had shared his flight with light up in rapturous glee as they ran into the awaiting arms of their loved ones — reunited once again under the promise of the flight plan. He bit down on his lips as a forced smile stretched across his face; if only that could be the case for him as well.

He found his mind wandering back to you at the thought. You had posted more photos since the one he saw of you smiling by the beach. You seemed happy — he wanted to believe that you _had_ been happy.

And he didn’t want to admit it, for he was sure that such a possibility would have brought along nothing save for despair, but he too had hoped for the miracle that perhaps you had uncovered the well shrouded secret of his return, and that his surprised eyes would meet yours as soon as he took a couple more steps into the hall.

He looked back up as he wiped the expression off of his face, reverting back to the blank slate that had sat on previously. Oikawa walked over to the side and took out his phone from his pocket, dialling the number sitting at the top of his call history.

Entertaining thoughts as dangerous as the one that had just popped into his mind was far too risky. He was a professional — he couldn’t let such irrational thoughts get the best of him and influence his performance. Besides, it wasn’t as if his reason for return was anything admirable either. It was a forced vacation of sorts; a yell from his coach to “take it easy for once” and to “enjoy what life had to offer”.

He let out a bitter laugh as he leaned against the wall, waiting for his friend to pick up on the other end. It seemed as if it had been just yesterday when he had lectured his rival that taking breaks was part of training as well. Call it divine retribution, but it was almost poetic that he now stood in Narita International Airport’s arrival concourse having been sent home to do just that after overdoing it at practice for months on end.

It wasn’t that he didn’t _want_ to enjoy it — it was just that everything about life itself reminded him of you. Volleyball served as a way of escape; perhaps even a form of self-inflicted penance for having left you those many moons ago. Enjoy what life had to offer? It simply didn’t feel right to do so; he didn’t feel like he even had the right to do so — not when he was haunted by the grimace of a smile you had seen him off with.

The beeping of the busy tone on the other hand dragged him out of his thoughts, and he clicked his tongue in annoyance at the realization that his call had been forwarded to his friend’s voicemail inbox. Perhaps the hope of seeing _you_ at the airport would remain as nothing but a pipe dream, but he had full confidence in his childhood best friend to be here to greet him on arrival and drive him back home to Miyagi.

With a scowl, he ripped his phone from his ear and pressed down hard on the red button before tapping quickly on the number again to dial once more. _Did Iwaizumi seriously want him to take the train home? After such a long flight?_

“Tōru.”

He frowned, turning over to the side towards the direction of the voice that had just called his name. _That wasn’t Iwaizumi…?_

Oikawa lowered his phone from his ear, pressing the side button to lock the device and pocketing it in his team jacket as his eyes widened in disbelief.

There you stood, standing at the center of the arrival hall of the airport staring straight at him, a small smile hinting at the sense of nostalgia that must have infested your mind spreading delicately across your lips.

Your eyes no longer burned with the same fire of your youth, instead now lined by the remnants of sleepless nights. Your hair a tangled mess, your clothing wrinkled as if you had fallen asleep earlier and had just woken up in the nick of time to frantically race over to the airport.

There was no sense of elegance nor grace in your appearance: your forehead was veiled by a thin film of sweat, and your shoulders rose and fell as your gasps filled your chest cavity with air. And yet amidst all your imperfections, in that very moment he had thought that his eyes had set sight on the epitome of beauty itself.

He wanted nothing more but to run up to you and wrap his arms around you for dear life, whispering with his arms trembling as his voice conveyed his mind’s trepidations of the many nights he had spent throughout the years awake and thinking of the _what-if’s_ and _could-be’s_ if he had asked you to come with him. He wanted to whisk you away to a reality where he could be as selfish as he wanted to — to have _you_ heed his every beck and call.

But he couldn’t.

His jaw clenched up as he forced down a hard swallow, allowing the numbing feeling spawned at the base of his neck to traverse across his entire form.

He couldn’t just throw away all that he’s worked for.

Not after coming this far.

So Oikawa instead chose to square his shoulders and raise his chin up, taking a deep breath as he plastered on another one of his signature smiles.

He was an entertainer and it was time to once again perform before the audience.

“(f/n)! I didn’t expect to see you! Did you miss my handso—”

In all the years that Oikawa had known you, loved you — protected you — nothing would have prepared him for what was to come next. Perhaps that was what had drawn him to you to begin with in the first place — well spoken and polite, empathetic yet never overbearing. You were never one to make bold moves, rather choosing to observe from the shadows and quietly act to spur the wheels of change whenever appropriate.

He had been interrupted by you sprinting at full speed towards him, flinging your arms around his neck and clamping on tightly for dear life. He could feel the shaking of your shoulders — the fear, relief, and excitement of your reunion overwhelming your every conscious thought as you buried your head deep in his chest. The vibrations of your heartbeat echoed against his — loud and rapid; they served as the constant reminder that it was truly _you_ and not just another figment of his imagination. That this moment was real and not just another one of his hallucinations.

He could feel his hand begin to slip off the metaphorical ledge of self control — or was it self restraint? Another finger fell off the edge, followed by another, and he soon found himself tumbling down the depths of the unknown and into a foreign world where the beasts roaming within his mind scoured his every plane of existence.

With your fingers gripping onto his shoulders in a desperate attempt to keep him close, he could feel the unsteady gasps of your lungs as you struggled to control your breathing amidst the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins. He reached out his arms reflexively, encircling your waist as he pulled you in closer to him, and resting a hand on the back of your head in hopes it would send you the silent cue of reassurance to relax — to let you know that he wasn’t going to go anywhere this time.

“Please don’t lie anymore,” you suddenly bursted out, your tears staining the fabric of his shirt as you shook your head against his chest. He raised a hand up to smooth the flyaways of your hair — a distraction if anything to take his attention off the tears brimming in his own eyes.

Oikawa Tōru was not one to let his emotions get the best of him when he was acting out a scene. He looked down, his hand trailing down from your head to rest on your shoulder. He couldn’t give in; his role was not over yet.

“I’m not, you silly bean,” he chuckled with a smile as he gave your shoulder a light squeeze. “I’m not,” he repeated again, this time inaudible to everyone save for himself.

Because somewhere along the way, even he had found himself lost in the grey between truth and lie, consumed by the very mask he had put on and had long forgotten to take off. Had he been lying through his teeth, convincing everyone around him as well as himself that he was alright, all this time? He wasn’t sure anymore; he couldn’t tell anymore.

“Yes you are,” you insisted, looking up to meet him in the eyes, your expression stern and serious with no room for contention. You laced your fingers through the strands of his hair, resting your palm against his cheek as your eyes softened. “Yes you are,” you whispered once more.

He quirked up an eyebrow as he stared back unyieldingly. The tone you had spoken in was a far cry from the behavior exhibited just moments before — reminiscent of the confident and certain aura you radiated in his memories.

“Alright, then let’s say I am,” he sang as his eyes disappeared behind the guise of his smile, “what would I be lying about then?”

“Your mask. Take it off.”

Oikawa could hear the sound of a crack in his porcelain mask ring out in the canals of his ears, indicative of a chip in the polished material — a fracture, a flaw, an error. He released you from his hold as his hand immediately flew up to meet the one you had on his face, brushing it off with alarm and consternation.

“What are you talking about?”he stammered out clumsily in a laugh, pushing you away by the shoulders as he stumbled back. It was supposed to be perfect; he was supposed to have put on a flawless show. You weren’t supposed to have seen through his act — you weren’t supposed to have figured it all out.

“You don’t have to bear it alone, you don’t have to smile through it all. Please don’t hide it, at least not from me.” You stopped to look up at him with a gentle smile — the same one he had sacrificed all he knew to protect. “Let’s bear it together on our shoulders,” you murmured, the vulnerability in your voice on full display.

You took a step forward, cautiously raising your hand up to his face, pausing as if to wait for his permission before delicately resting your palm against his cheek and brushing your thumb gently across the skin atop his cheekbones.

“Can you show me your real face?” you asked, your voice breathy and tremulous.

A louder crack oscillated against his eardrums, and he felt the mask that had sat cemented on his face for all his life break apart and disintegrate into dust.

A wave of emotions flew at him all at once — his mind replaying the memories of his high school days as he stared back at you. There was the time you had rubbed his back in a quiet embrace following his final defeat in the Spring qualifiers, the time when you awkwardly patted him on the head when he tripped and landed on his face back in elementary school — even the time you had held on tightly to his hand as you dragged him out to the nearest convenience store to buy him ice cream when he failed one of his quizzes back in junior high. He bit down hard as the realization that it had been _you_ who had been protecting _him_ all this time struck him at his very core.

_Oh, how foolish he had been._

Without a moment’s delay and almost as if on cue, Oikawa could feel from deep within the rushing of the downpour of his emotions; the release of his floodgates.

And for the first time since he had first stepped onto the stage, the curtain finally closed and he returned to being simply Oikawa Tōru. Not an Olympian, not a star setter, not even the ex-captain of his high school team. He was just another measly human being living on the face of the planet. Pathetic, mortal, powerless — yet hopeful, determined, and passionate.

“I’m tired,” he choked out through his tears, his grip on you tightening as if anything less would mean you would be separated from him again. “I just wanted the world for you. I was prepared to live through the rest of my life like this, but I’m tired. I’m tired of always having to pretend — to be happy when everyone else is down.”

He paused as he gasped for air, his eyes trained at the ceiling to force a seal back onto his tears, and admitted in a hushed whisper:

“I don’t know for how much longer I can live like this.”

Hot tears trailed uninhibited down his cheeks as he raised a hand up to wipe his face with his sleeve. His stage makeup dissolved where his tears had conquered, blurring the crisply drawn lines and smudging the perfected beauty into nothingness.He now stood bare-faced in front of you, no masks and no painted appearances, allowing for the true face of a frail man to finally resurface.

He felt your hands snake up from behind his waist, resting gently on his shoulder blades as you tiptoed up to rest your chin on his shoulder, humming softly as the rumble in your chest lulled the resistance within him to sleep, giving way for the thoughts he had long thought dormant to reawaken.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped through heavy sobs as he pressed his face against your shoulder, staining the fabric of your jacket with his tears. His hands tightened around the fistful of your jacket’s fabric as his shoulders trembled in senseless, uncontrollable fear. “I failed. I’m sorry I failed.”

“It’s okay,” you reassured him in a hushed whisper, rubbing your hand on his back. “It’s okay,” you repeated again, your voice louder, brighter — clearer.

“I couldn’t even fucking protect the _one_ thing that mattered,” he cursed through gritted teeth, beating down at his own failure.

“You did, and I could never thank you enough,” you told him in response, your heart steady and your words laced with nothing save for the truth.

“Would you leave me? Even after knowing how selfish I truly am?”

“I would never.” Your hand travelled down to in search for his, your digits interlocking and your palm molding perfectly to fit the curvature of his as if carved from a single marble block.

“ _I never stopped loving you_.”

Your remaining hand on his back pressed him closer to you, the pounding against your ribcages synchronizing with one another to meet at each beat. Your eyes fluttered closed and a smiled carved itself onto your lips.

“And neither have I.”

He lifted his head up from your shoulders, his eyes darting past the darkened patch of wet fabric to your face. He stared past your pupils and into the uncharted depths within, as if seeking for a new reason — a new purpose — to live for now that the skeletons in his closet had been brought into the daylight.

_Should he?_

He could.

“Can I steal you away?” he found himself asking in a hoarse murmur as he raised a shaking hand up to your cheek, his heart beating so rapidly of hesitant uncertainty that he was sure you must have felt his pulse from your clasp on his hand.

“ **Are you sure about that**?” you asked, your eyes wide with awe and surprise, your voice trembling in disbelief and excitement.

And without a second to waste, his voice dripping with unwavering resolution, he opened his mouth to speak: to answer the question he couldn’t years before because this time, _he knew_. He knew exactly what his answer needed to be.

“Yes,” he stated with absolute certainty and without missing a single beat. 

* * *

“Hey, Oikawa looks happier these days, doesn’t he?” Hanamaki commented as he scrolled through his phone. Iwaizumi looked up from his plate, his mouth stuffed with food, and glanced over at his friend’s phone.

Staring back at him with absolute unbridled glee was none other than Oikawa and you, his arms flung lazily across your shoulders, his face pressed right up next to yours, as you held up a peace sign of your own. The sun was unobstructed and free to shine as brightly as it could, but even then it was no match for your combined beams flashed straight at the camera, the contagious radiance of your shared happiness unparalleled to all. ****

He shook his head as he swallowed down the bite of his meal, letting out a chuckle as he reached for the glass of water by his side.

“He certainly does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading :)


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